JAMES    K.MOFF1TT 


PAULINE  FORE  MOFFITT 
LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
GENERAL  LIBRARY,  BERKELEY 


COPYRIGHT,I920,BYTHB  BOOK  CLUB  of  CALIFORNIA 


THE  VINTAGE  FESTIVAL: 

A  PLAY  PAGEANT  &  FESTIVITIES 
CELEBRATING  THE  VINE  IN  THE 
AUTUMN  OF  EACH  YEAR  AT  ST. 
HELENA  IN  THE  NAPA  VALLEY  % 
BY  SARA  BARD  FIELD  $  PRINTED 
BY  JOHN  HENRY  NASH  FOR  THE 
BOOK  CLUB  OF  CALIFORNIA  £  SAN 
FRANCISCO  g  MDCCCCXX  fc  &  8  fc  fc 

MOONLIGHT  in  St.  Helena,  a  cozily  small 
town  in  the  heart  of  the  Napa  Valley, 
that  narrow,  vine-covered  strip  of  Northern 
California  which  SilveradoSquatterslias  world- 
widened.  Swaying  treetops  against  the  moon. 
Shadows,shy,mischievous,stealingoutofthe 
unseen,  approaching,  retreating,  running  to 
cover.  Languorous  breezes,  sylphs, sensuously 
warm  and  fragrant,  moving  with  silken  ease. 
A  pathway  of  light  down  the  whole  street, 
mixed  of  eledric  glow  and  the  moon's  bor- 
rowed fire.  This  street  for  the  time  being  is 
the  whole  world,  all  that  lay  on  either  side 


The  'Vintage  of  it  hidden  behind  Night's  draperies.  Men. 
Festival  Women.  Youths.  Maidens.  Little  boys  and 
girls.  Surging  throngs;  groups  on  both  banks 
of  the  river  of  light.  Laughter.  Shouts.  Whis- 
perings. Gentle  answerings.  A  whistled  tune. 
From  some  upper  porch  the  notes  of  a  band. 
They  float  out  over  the  kughter,  over  the 
shouting,  over  the  confusion  of  movement. 
A  curious  flutter  among  the  people.  A  sud- 
den separation  and  then  a  quick  co-mingling. 
A  fleeting  pause  in  which  each  soul  attunes 
itself  to  the  harmony,  and  each  foot  to  the 
rhythm.  Then,  like  the  whirling  of  leaves 
at  the  call  of  Autumn,  the  dance  is  on  in 
the  middle  of  the  wide  street.  It  is  a  loom, 
human  beings  the  shuttles,  weaving  broken 
colors.  It  is  a  stream  of  swift  movement, 
eddies  within  eddies,  yet  all  flowing  with  the 
main  current.  At  the  call  of  trombone  and 
drum  these  human  beings  attest  their  one- 
ness with  all  that  articulates  in  rhythm:  stars 
whirling  in  majestic  choruses;  waters  rolling 
their  repetitions ;  winds  rising  and  falling ; 


birds  singing  in  staccato  notes  or  long,  liquid  The  Mintage 
trilling ;  inseds  flashing  their  fiery  grace  notes  Festival 
on  the  open  sheet  of  Night.  Part  of  all  these 
the  people  have  become.  The  heaviness  of 
flesh  gone,  the  lightness  of  spirit  remaining. 
Is  it  that  ancestral  memories  are  tonight  incar- 
nate? Memories,  aeons  old,  when  life  was  lived 
in  gliding  waters  and  in  bending  branches  ? 
The  arching  locusts  which  tent  the  street  are 
bending  tonight  as  they  did  when  they  housed 
the  prophetic  forerunners  of  mankind.  They 
sway  with  these  happy  dancers.  Movement. 
Music.  Merriment.  Beauty  for  the  eye,  the 
ear,  for  the  soul's  never-appeased  hunger. 

"Can  this  be  America?" 

There  came  this  amazed  interrogation  to 
the  Dreamer  who  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
dancing  throng.  There  was  no  answer.  The 
Dreamer  by  the  side  of  the  Questioner  had 
lost  all  sense  of  locality,  of  dates,  of  names. 
Beauty  is  cosmic. 

"Can  this  be  America?  Is  love  of  Beauty 
part  of  the  instind  of  this  Nation?" 

3 


The  Vintage  Again  the  Questioner  challenged.  The 
Festival  Dreamer  looked  up  and  down  the  lighted 
way.  Here  were  no  gaudy  streamers ;  no  heart- 
breaking plaster  arches;  no  marring  artificial 
designs.  To  Nature  alone  had  been  left  the 
scheme  of  decoration:  a  canopy  of  midnight 
blue  with  all  the  jewels  of  the  House  of 
Heaven  flung  broadcast  upon  it;  a  full  moon 
spreading  a  shimmering  carpet  for  the  feet 
of  the  revelers,  and  the  embroidery  of  the 
trees.  A  few  dignified  electroliers,  a  perma- 
nent addition  to  the  town,  and  the  simple 
costumes  of  the  people  were  man's  only  con- 
tribution. 

Surely  it  is  not  America.  It  is  Egypt.  A 
swarthy  monarch  has  returned  from  the  wars 
to  carve  on  an  obelisk  the  glories  of  his 
conquest.  Libations  are  being  poured  to  Ra, 
to  Seb,  to  Isis  and  Osiris  with  music  and 
dancing. 

It  is  Spain.  A  court  in  old  Madrid,  Plaza 
de  Isabella,  All  Saints'  Feast,  the  long  and 
regular  file  of  a  torch-light  procession  turn- 

4 


ing  at  the  sound  of  flute  and  tambourine  Thc^Uintagc 

into  the  serpentine  weavings  of  the  dance.  Festival 

The  splash  of  that  fountain  must  come  from 

the  palace  gardens;  that  singing  laugh  from 

a  dainty  senorita  in  velvet  bodice  and  scarlet 

skirt.  How  warm  the  night!  Is  it  jasmine  we 

smell? 

Or  perhaps  it  is  Greece.  An  oaken  grove 
in  her  Golden  Age.  A  Bacchanalian  feast. 
Abandon  without  loss  of  beauty.  Revelry 
without  excess.  Yes,  yes,  Euripides,  they  have 
come  again"thelong,long  dances,  on  through 
the  dark  till  the  dim  stars  wane." 

We  know  the  meaning  of  it  all  now.  It  is 
not  real.  This  is  a  vast  stage  which  stretches 
before  us  and  we  are  tasting  that  highly  con- 
centrated essence  of  life  in  art  called  a  drama. 
This  must  be  the  carnival  scene  before  Shy- 
lock's  house.  Hark!  Did  not  a  paddle  caress 
the  Venetian  waters  ?  Was  it  Jessica  called  ? 

The  band  ceases.  "A  bully  spin";  "Toot 
her  up  again";' 'How  's  that  for-";"  You're 
mynext-";«Yes,youdid'';«There'snoth- 

5 


The  'Vintage  ing  like — "  A  shower  of  drifting  word-frag- 
Festival  ments  dropped  on  the  Dreamer.  Lo,  it  is 
not  Egyptian  speech,  nor  yet  the  tongue  of 
Aspasia  or  Don  Quixote.  Nor  is  it  Jessica 
answering  Lorenzo  in  summer-soft  Italian. 
It  is  the  familiar  American  talk.  Indeed,  this 
is  America.  A  September  night  in  this  twen- 
tieth century.  A  vintage  festival  in  the  little 
town  of  St.  Helena  that  lies  in  the  green  Napa 
Valley  of  golden  California. 

For  three  days  and  nights  Labor  rested  in 
this  Valley  of  the  Vine.  There  is  little  industry 
here  other  than  that  of  vine-raising  and  wine- 
making.  The  grape  pickers  have  ceased  to 
pick;  the  packers  to  pack ;  the  haulers  to  haul. 
The  old  Gray  Stone  Winery  in  the  town, 
father  of  many  wineries  in  the  State,  and  all 
his  busy  children  in  the  Valley,  have  closed 
their  doors  against  the  juicy  loads.  The  cool 
cellars  echo  to  never  a  step.  The  vats  stand 
waiting.  The  presses  idle.  Silence  broods. 

Gold!  Gold!  Gold!  It  poured  into  the  Val- 
ley for  the  holiday  and  centered  in  this  little 
6 


town  of  St.  Helena.  Gold  of  sun  by  day,  of  The  'Vintage 
stars  by  night.  Golden-green  vineyards.  Gold-  Festival 
en  September  flowers.  Golden  leaves  for  the 
ground.  Golden  breezes  to  lift  them  skyward. 

Joy!  Joy!  Joy!  It  came  hurrying  into  the 
village  in  steam  and  trolley  cars;  in  autos; 
in  carriages;  in  wagons;  on  horseback  and 
on  foot.  It  brushed  its  wings  over  eyes  and 
lips.  It  sat  singing  at  every  roadway  entrance. 

Grapes!  Grapes!  Grapes!  Wagons  of  them. 
Tons  of  them.  Mountains  of  them.  Purple. 
Blue.  Yellow.  White.  Decorating  everything, 
perfuming  all  the  corners.  Given  like  the  dew 
of  heaven  alike  to  the  just  and  the  unjust. 
Wonderful  bunches  such  as  the  Hebrewspies 
brought  "upon  a  staff  between  two"  from 
the  valley  of  Eschol.  Crowded  clusters  like  a 
lover's  shower  of  passioned  kisses  caught  and 
held  love-close  on  the  slender  stems.  Grapes 
with  mouth-filling,  satisfying  names :  Mus- 
catelle,  Bouchet,  Sultanina  Rosea ;  Mataro, 
Monduse,  FlamingTokay.  A  hundred  others. 

Wine !  Wine !  Wine !  Red  wine.  White  wine. 


The  ^Vintage  Amber  wine.  Glasses  of  it.  Bottles  of  it.  Casks 
Festival  of  it.  Rivers  of  it.  Bubbling,  sparkling,  foam- 
ing, hastening  onto  the  Seaof  Time. Crimson 
wine,  crushed  of  old  by  white  feet  treading 
the  wine  press,  the  white  feet  of  Sorrow,  for- 
ever bathed  in  scarlet  Joy. 

It  is  Morning  now.  Floods  of  sunlight  lave 
the  earth.  The  Festival  begins  its  second  day 
of  glad  play.  All  the  people  are  anchored  on 
the  edge  of  the  street.  Eagerness  everywhere. 
Tremulous  excitement  among  the  little  chil- 
dren.Thrills  of  unwonted  exhilaration  among 
their  elders.  At  the  sound  of  music  all  heads 
turn  in  one  direction.  The  parade  is  coming, 
headed  by  the  local  choral  society.  The  rich 
notes  of  "Sonntagslied"  cause  no  expressions 
of  ignorant  hatred.  These  people  know  it  is 
fitting  that  those  voices  from  the  Rhineland 
be  heard,  for  long  ago  in  this  region,  before 
the  curse  of  kaisers  and  junkers  had  blinded 
hearts  to  the  essential  oneness  of  all  races,  a 
Krug,  son  of  Germany,  his  hair  dyed  in  sun- 
light, married  a  Vallejo,  daughter  of  Spain, 
8 


with  night  woven  into  her  tresses.  United  The^Uintage 
forever  those  wide  reaching  vineyards  of  the 
oldest  settlers  of  Napa  Valley.  United  for- 
ever the  traditions  that  throng  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  float  endlessly  upon  the  Rhine. 
The  song  ends,  for  songs  must  end.  The 
singers  pass  on,  and  singers  must  ever  pass 
on.  The  people  stretch  their  necks  the  better 
to  see  the  lovely  vision  which  literally  floats 
upon  them.  The  Queen!  She,  whom  the 
people  have  elected  to  reign  over  them  during 
their  play-time.  O  to  be  Queen  of  a  play-time 
realm !  Dressed  in  Grecian  robes,  surrounded 
by  maids  in  like  costume,  she  sits  enthroned 
against  white  lattice  work,  overhung  with 
goldenrod.  She  smiles  at  her  subjects  with  the 
regal  experience  of  nineteen  summers.  The 
people  applaud.  They  love  her.  The  Dreamer 
looks  at  her  and  also  loves  her.  Why  not? 
She  is  Helen.  She  is  Hypatia.  She  is  Thais. 
She  is  Marguerite.  She  is  Guinevere.  She  is 
beautiful  woman  of  all  ages  and  imagination. 
She  is  the  very  last  incarnation  of  Beauty. 

9 


The  'Vintage  Purple  and  green  of  vineyards.  Golden  and 
Festival  blue  of  California.  These  are  the  colors  every- 
where :  in  the  profusion  of  grapes  that  festoon 
all  the  floats ;  in  the  costumes  of  the  marchers 
and  of  those  who  ride.  If  art  be  the  revela- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  that  which  it  portrays, 
surely  this  is  art. 

Bravo,  native  sons  and  daughters,  poppies 
personified,  in  your  yellow  garments  flutter- 
ing petal-wide  to  the  breeze.  Bravo,  little 
marching  maidens  with  the  roses  of  Damas- 
cus and  Castile  blooming  on  your  cheeks  and 
the  wine  of  California  spilt  on  your  lips; 
with  butterfly  ribbons  of  gold  upon  your 
golden  heads.  You  are  more  than  you  seem 
to  your  own  blithesome  hearts  or  to  the  cheer- 
ing crowd.  You  are  the  embodiment  of  a 
spirit.  You  are  the  incarnation  of  a  nameless 
glory. 

Tramp  of  feet.  Clatter  of  hoofs.  Champing 

at  the  bits  of  impatient  horses.  A  symbol 

passes.  It  is  a  float  in  two  sections.  The  first, 

a  group  of  stately  trees,  a  tent  in  the  midst, 

10 


skins  of  animals  hung  about.  An  Indian  sits  The^Uintage 

smoking  before  the  smouldering  fire.  The  Festival 

inscription  below  reads :  "Before  the  Coming 

of  the  White  Man."  The  second  sedion  is 

the  same  spot  cleared.  Now  sky  and  soil  stand 

frankly  face  to  face.  Even  rows  of  the  vine 

make  the  land  green.  Bunches  of  blue  and 

purple,  shadows  caught  from  the  misted 

evening  mountains  and  wrought  by  the  sun 

into  fruit,  show  among  the  leaves.  The  float 

is  named:  "After  the  Coming  of  the  White 

Man." 

An  old  man  sighs  and  smiles  in  unison.  "I 
cleared  a  spot  like  that,"  he  volunteers,  his 
eyes  following  the  float  tenderly,  "long  be- 
fore the  phylloxera  came." 

"The  phylloxera!  Was  it  an  animal  or  a 
tribe?" 

The  old  man  laughs,  a  rich  laugh,  steeped 
in  the  juices  of  his  vineyard.  "Naw,  it  was 
an  insedt.  A  pest  like  them  things  Moses 
turned  loose  on  that  Pharaoh.  Tiny,  like  a 
louse.  It  eats  the  root  of  the  vine.  It  was 


ii 


The 'Vintage  fierce  once.  It  wiped  out  sixteen  thousand 
Festival  acres  for  us,  a  lot  for  this  little  valley." 

"  And  the  people — what  did  you  do  ?  "  The 
Dreamer  was  eagerly  linking  Nature's  cruelty 
with  human  destiny. 

"  Do ! "  There  was  scorn  unspeakable  in  the 
monosyllable. "Do !  We  done  what  San  Fran- 
cisco done  after  the  fire.  We  began  again.  We 
planted  new  vineyards.  Only  we  had  to  ex- 
periment for  a  resistant  stock.  We  found 
it— a  vine  so  tough  the  vermin  can 't  pene- 
trate it.  It  was  grown  in  the  Missouri  Valley, 
taken  to  France  for  seasoning  of  that  soil  and 
climate  and  brought  back  to  us.  We  graft 
every  vine  into  it.  No  more  phylloxera.  Look 
at  that  now.  Ain't  it  clever?" 

The  Dreamer  looked.  Uncle  Sam  in  the 
person  of  a  small  wide-eyed  lad  was  joining 
the  hands  of  two  wee  lassies  whose  diminu- 
tive sweetness  symbolized  by  way  of  contrast 
the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  made  one  through 
the  fusion  of  their  waters  in  the  Panama 
Canal.  But  the  Dreamer  was  still  thinking 

12 


of  that  other  union  so  picturesquely  drawn  by  The  ^Vintage 
the  old  man's  words :  the  fusion  of  saps  from  Festival 
France  and  California — sap,  mysterious  dis- 
tillation of  skies  and  dews  and  air  and  sun.  In 
it  are  the  dreams  of  sleeping  Winter,  the  thrill 
of  waking  Spring,  the  work  of  fructifying 
Summer  and  the  fulfilment  of  ripening  Au- 
tumn. Is  not  the  hope  of  the  world  symbol- 
ized in  this  vineyard  story?  Do  we  not  dream 
of  a  race  of  sturdy  men  and  women,  born  in 
this  land  of  the  co-mingled  blood  of  many 
people  to  become  a  resistant  stock  to  the  para- 
sites who  destroy  the  vine  of  Universal  Hap- 
piness ?  Is  it  not,  as  the  best  of  the  Past  which 
is  the  Old  World  mingles  with  the  best  of  the 
Present  which  is  the  New  Land,  that  peaceful 
warriors  shall  be  born  to  take  destruction  cap- 
tive and  feed  the  children  of  the  earth  the  wine 
of  joy?  Gone  barren  deserts  of  despair;  the 
blight  of  poverty;  the  sere  of  unsatisfied  long- 
ing ;  the  mad  waste  of  war;  gone  blasted  buds 
of  hope  and  aspiration.  Only  the  withered 
leaves  of  past  agonies  left  to  be  scattered  and 

13 


The  'Vintage  destroyed  bythe winds  of  forgetfiilness.Gone 
Festival  forever  human  phylloxera.  The  land  brave  in 
new  vintage  of  the  soul,  continually  renewed. 
Even  so  come,  lovely  and  distant  morning. 

The  procession  passes  into  ending.  The 
hours  wing  away.  At  evening  in  the  little 
theatre  where  scenes  of  the  Isles  of  Greece 
have  been  skillfully  painted  as  a  background, 
the  work  of  this  people  blossoms  into  an  al- 
legorical drama.  The  beautiful  Queen  is  on 
her  throne.  Ceres,  Pomona,  and  Flora  leave 
their  ancestral  land  beside  the  ^gean  and 
mingle  this  night  with  gods  and  goddesses 
of  later  birth  and  modern  name.  The  Evil 
Spirit  known  as  the  Knocker  whose  pleasure 
is  to  cast  reproach  on  all  divinities  of  earth, 
appears  with  Future  and  Prosperity  caught 
in  her  cobweb.  She  is  overcome  and  driven 
from  the  Valley  by  St.  Helena.  Future  and 
Prosperity  are  released  and  spread  their  bless- 
ings broadcast.  The  goddesses  at  their  bid- 
ding offer  choicest  gifts  to  the  Queen.  Cli- 
mate brings  Rain  and  Sun;  Flora,  the  Daisy 


and  Rose;  Ceres,  Wheat  and  Corn;  Pomona,  The  'Vintage 
Fruit  and  Wine.  Prosperity  makes  miracu-  Festival 
lous  increase  of  all  things  and  Future  leads  in 
Happiness.  All  of  these  parts  are  aded  by 
the  loveliest  girls  and  youths  of  the  Valley. 
To  simple  airs  they  dance  the  old  Greek 
dances  ending  in  a  modern  butterfly  whirl, 
all  joy,  all  swift  emotion.  The  lines  of  the 
allegory  are  in  lyrical  blank  verse.  At  the  very 
last  Bacchus  appears  and  the  Queen  abdi- 
cates her  throne  in  his  favor  to  the  tumult  of 
great  revelry. 

What  gentle  spirit,  the  Dreamer  wonders, 
has  guided  this  communal  expression?  Some- 
one whose  roots  are  in  Hellenic  beauty  but 
whose  flower  is  of  the  present.  A  teacher,  the 
Dreamer  is  told,  a  loved  instructor  of  the  vil- 
lage known  to  the  people  of  the  whole  Val- 
ley. His  name?  Gardner  de  Veuve.  Well,  it  is 
plain  now.  His  name  tells  the  story.  He  is 
French,  born  of  that  race  which  is  the  spiri- 
tual child  of  Ancient  Greece,  curious,  beauty- 
loving,  shaping  thought  to  forms  of  beauty 


The  Mintage  and  becoming  by  that  divine  right  arbiter  of 
Festival  the  world's  taste.  This  Gardner  de  Veuve, 
poet  and  artist,  wrote  the  lines  of  the  allegor- 
ical drama,  superintended  the  painting  of  the 
scenery,  helped  in  the  design  of  costumes 
and  floats,  but  above  all — and  herein  rests  his 
greater  claim  to  honor —he  had  the  genius  of 
engaging  the  people  in  a  whole-souled  par- 
ticipation. He  called  to  all  the  folk  of  the 
region  saying : "  Come,  this  is  your  life  speak- 
ing in  pidure  and  in  play.  You  must  all  take 
some  part  in  your  Festival." 

So  they  came  from  Napa  at  the  one  end  of 
the  Valley,  from  Calistoga  at  the  other  where 
the  ghost  of  the  loved  Stevenson  still  lingers, 
and  from  all  the  vineyards  and  tiny  villages 
in  between.  The  men  brought  the  fruit  of  the 
field  and  the  produdt  of  their  wineries  for  the 
big  exhibit;  the  women,  the  results  of  their 
fireside  toil,  preserves  and  jellies  and  pickles. 
The  children  contributed  specimens  of  their 
school  work.  Young  and  old  rode  in  the  floats 
or  marched  in  the  parade.  On  the  stage  girls 
16 


and  boys  make  virgin  efforts  while  the  crowd  The  ^Vintage 
in  the  theatre  is  adive  with  applause.  The  Festival 
theatre  is  filled  to  overflowing.  The  whole 
world  is  there;  all  of  them  a  people  who  have 
befriended  the  Vine:  Italians  with  associ- 
ations of  Lachryma  Christi  and  Chianti; 
Portuguese  with  old  Madeira  in  the  blood; 
French,  about  whom  is  wrapped  the  aroma 
of  Burgundy  and  in  whom  is  the  sparkle  of 
Champagne;  Germans  who  gave  the  world 
the  delicate  wines  of  the  Rhine  and  Moselle ; 
Native  Sons  and  Daughters  in  whose  veins 
is  a  new-mixed  wine  and  in  whose  hearts, 
thank  the  gods,  the  heritage  of  laughter.The 
spirit  of  youth  is  here  though  wrinkles  and 
white  hair  are  in  abundance.  Carnival  caps 
adorn  each  head:  Grandmother's  silver  locks 
and  the  Baby's  bewitching  baldness.  Now 
Bacchus  makes  a  jesting  speech.  He  is  round 
and  fat  and  jolly  as  Bacchus  should  be.  He 
bids  the  people  be  merry  as  Bacchus  should 
do.  They  shout  and  applaud. 
To  the  Dreamer  a  mist  seems  to  wrap  the 


The  'Vintage  stage,  a  delicate,  rosy  mist  through  which  the 
Festival  moving  figures  become  more  suggestively 
lovely.  It  is  made  of  the  crimson  light  of 
wine.  Wine !  Wine !  Wine !  Age  old.  Made 
by  Noah,  used  by  Abram  and  Melchizedek, 
poured  as  libations  to  the  gods  when  Christ 
was  a  secret  of  the  far,  far  future.  Wine, 
drunk  by  the  Epicureans  as  the  tangible  touch 
with  the  goodness  of  things  seen.  Wine,  sipped 
by  the  Mystics  as  the  symbol  of  union  with 
things  unseen.  Wine,  making  the  blood  of 
Christ  as  it  had  been  the  blood  of  Dionysos. 
Wine,  scarlet  ribbon,  binding  into  one  great 
sheaf  all  races,  religions,  festivities,  literatures, 
customs — all  times. 

Suddenly  there  is  in  the  midst  of  the  rosy 
clouds  a  multitude  of  the  departed,  "whose 
music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world."  It  is  the 
company  of  the  Poets  of  the  Ages.  The 
Dreamer  heard  the  voice  of  one  David  sing- 
ing to  the  sound  of  psaltery,  "Wine  that 
maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man";  of  Solomon 
singing  to  the  Shukmite  damsel : 
18 


"  Let  us  get  up  early  to  the  vineyards.  The  ^Vintage 

Let  us  see  whether  the  vine  hath  budded          r    .  •     / 

, ,         ,  rcstwai 

And  its  blossom  be  open 

And  the  pomegranate  be  in  flower. 

There  will  I  give  thee  my  love." 

An  unnamed  voice,  hoary  with  age  from 
the  Indus  sang: 

"Thou  Indra  oft  hast  quaffed 
With  keen  delight  our  Soma  draught. 
All  gods  the  luscious  Soma  love, 
But  thou  all  other  gods  above." 

Arabia,  Egypt,  Assyria,  and  the  ancient 
peoples  behind  the  veil  of  history  lent  voices 
to  the  choiring  and  there  were  strains  from 
Anacreon,  Meleager,  Horace,  Omar,  Villon, 
Shakespeare,  Milton,  Heine,  Burns,  Keats, 
and  many  nameless  ones,  some  mere  echoes 
from  distant  time. 

Not  in  vain  do  they  gather  here  this  night, 
saluters,  poetic,  of  the  storied  wine.  A  thing, 
prophetic,  is  transpiring,  a  thing  to  rejoice  all 
the  vineyard  gods :  Soma,  Dionysos,  Silenus, 
Bacchus.  America,  crowned  with  shekels, 
girded  with  steel,  shod  with  iron,  whose  face 

19 


The  'Vintage  is  scarred  with  poverty,  whose  breath  is  black 
Festival  smoke,  whose  voice  is  steam,  here  steps  forth 
in  a  new  guise.  A  garland  of  grapes  is  about 
her  brow;  a  crimson  girdle  on  her  loins,  her 
feet  golden  sandaled,  her  face  smiling  to  the 
stars,  and  her  breath  the  perfume  of  the 
"henna  flowers  in  the  vineyards  of  Engedi." 
Her  voice  is  laughter  and  song.  For  a  single 
moment  she  takes  her  place  with  every  nation 
which  has  dropped  a  star  of  beauty  on  the 
arch  of  time.  She  is  bound  to  them  by  the 
crimson  ribbon.  Well  may  the  invisible  host 
sing  and  the  gods  be  glad.  Well  may  these 
people  eat  the  fruit  of  pleasure  and  drink  the 
wine  of  gladness.  An  Industry,  permeated 
with  enough  of  beauty  and  romance  to  be- 
come articulate  in  poetry,  song,  and  dancing, 
is  this  hour  speaking.  An  Industry  is  laugh- 
ing. Think  of  it !  An  Industry  is  at  play. 
What  other  form  of  Labor  laughs?  Does 
steel-manufadure,  carried  on  in  the  heat  of 
hell  where  men  "sweating  like  the  damned 
run  to  and  fro"?  Does  mining,  that  work 
20 


with  sun  and  stars  sifted  out  and  Death  hov-  The  'Vintage 
ering  at  the  elbow  in  the  gloom?  Could  any  Festival 
Labor  laugh  which  is  done  in  the  reproach  of 
a  fadory  or  the  disgrace  of  a  sweat  shop? 
Have  even  the  growing  of  the  golden  wheat 
or  the  fluffy  cotton  or  the  industry  of  the  fra- 
grant orchards  spoken  in  music  and  pageant, 
in  merriment  and  poetry  ?  Could  any  one  of 
these  evoke  an  expression  of  such  universal 
beauty,  make  thought  walk  back  over  Time's 
loveliest  vistas  to  the  harpings  of  Callicles, 
the  flutmgs  of  Theocritus,  or  the  tinkling  of 
Salome's  tambourine? 

What  is  lacking  in  all  these  others  that  the 
Industry  of  the  Vine  possesses  in  such  high 
degree  ?  Romance !  Romance,  pressed  out 
with  the  first  grapes,  spilled  into  the  first  pair 
of  ruddy  lips.  Traditions.  Legends.  Religious 
rites.  Courtly  ceremonies.  Humble  hospital- 
ities. Festal  follies.  Nuptial  feasts.  Myriad 
libations.  Launching  of  ships.  Pledgings  to 
kings,  to  knights,  to  fair  ladies,  to  elusive 
Fortune  and  inconstant  Love.  Poetry.  Song. 

21 


The  'Vintage  A  million  hopes.  Ten  million  smiles.  Twice 
Festival  ten  million  heart  throbs.  These  live  again  in 
every  vineyard  —  in  Eschol,  in  Burgundy,  in 
Italy,  in  Greece,  in  California.  These  mystic 
and  precious  things,  the  heritage  of  human- 
ity, are  stored  in  every  vat,  made  captive  in 
every  bottle,  to  burst  forth  again  with  the  out- 
flow into  the  crystal  glass,  to  be  poured  again 
into  man's  veins,  to  become  the  language  his 
dumb  soul  cannot  utter,  the  universal  symbol 
for  his  unspoken  emotions;  to  live  as  long  as 
the  sun  kisses  the  earth's  bosom  and  the  dews 
bathe  it. 

It  is  this  which  the  humblest  of  the  people 
have  felt  in  their  vineyards  and  in  their  winer- 
ies. It  is  this  which  they  vaguely  know  makes 
this  festival  possible.  It  is  this  which  they 
sense  is  being  said  in  these  three  days  and 
nights  of  lovely  revelry.  It  is  this  which  makes 
Beauty  walk  boldly  through  their  midst. 

Somewhere,  now,  a  woman's  clear  soprano 
is  added  to  the  invisible  choiring,  linking  the 
song  of  the  past  with  that  of  the  now: 
22 


O  wreathed  vine,  how  long  have  you  been  growing?     The  ^intdVC 
O  crimson  stream,  how  long  have  you  been  flowing?     p     .      , 

Before  the  first  red  lips  knew  thirst 
When  infant  winds  were  blowing. 

O  magic  juice  within  the  purple  chalice, 
Whence  do  you  come  to  slay  our  care  and  malice? 

I  come,  I  run  from  Dew,  from  Sun, 
My  gold  and  azure  palace. 

0  never  touched  by  any  breath  of  sadness, 
What  is  the  mixture  of  your  godly  madness? 

Hope,  Laughter,  Joy  without  alloy; 

1  am  all  liquid  gladness. 

The  song  ends  in  a  triumphant  laughing 
assertion.  The  mists  recede.  The  vision  fades. 
Around  the  Dreamer  there  is  the  insistent 
stir  of  the  people  streaming  out  to  dance  again 
under  the  moon.  The  stars  light  up  the  in- 
cense of  new  dreams.  Lovers  tell  each  other 
secrets  older  than  wine.  Mothers  watch  their 
sons  choose  the  fairest  partners  and  their 
daughters  lure  the  youths  to  the  choice.  Fath- 
ers talk  in  groups  of  the  propitious  weather 
and  the  goodly  crops.  Lo,  they  too  are  pour- 
ing libations  to  the  gods.  Music.  Merriment. 
Memories.  Light.  Laughter.  Love.  Wine  and 

23 


The 'Vintage  Witchery.  Over  all  is  the  voice  of  one  who 
Festival  knew  life  deeply  singing: 

"Ah,  fill  the  cup: -what  boots  it  to  repeat 
How  Time  is  slipping  underneath  our  Feet : 
Unborn  To-morrow,  and  dead  Yesterday, 
Why  fret  about  them  if  To-day  be  sweet ! " 


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